


Saint, Sinner

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys Kissing, Drunk Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Kilts, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Where exactly did you keep that lube?, flirty Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the success of his Valentine's Day ploy, Sherlock uses another holiday to get what he wants. What he wants involves kilts, park benches, and lube. Also, John Watson's undivided attention.</p><p>Companion piece of sorts to "Sinner, Saint."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint, Sinner

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ellioop for the sporran-in-the-lube idea, and to the Antidiogenes Club members for their advice and encouragement!

“Kiss me, I’m Irish.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are not even a little bit Irish.”

“Kiss me anyway.” 

John obliges, shaking his head. He has no idea why Sherlock has been drinking tonight, but he rather likes it. Sherlock tipsy is all messy hair and loose limbs, outrageous statements and wild gestures. He’s slumped softly into the corner of their pub booth now, beckoning to John. John reaches out to caress his flushed cheek, and Sherlock grabs his arm and pulls him in. John loses his balance momentarily, but manages to avoid doing what Sherlock wants, which is falling into his lap and kissing him, sloppy and wet, in public. 

“So straight-laced. Won’t you just kiss me because you want to?” His eyebrows go up and John watches him wipe any guile of his face and take on that sweet, open expression that he uses either when he’s trying to get information from someone or when he’s coming. The similarity has added a certain-John can’t think of the exact word- perhaps piquancy, to investigations, that’s certain. 

“I don’t like public snogging, Sherlock. D’you want to go home? I’ll do filthy things to you at home.”

“Certainly. Just let me go to the gents’.”

“I’ll pay.”

John tips the barmaid a little extra, too, because she looks frazzled despite the early hour, and leans against the doorframe to wait. He scans the room, taking in the noise and the movement and the music. People are happy; it’s Saint Patrick’s Day, after all, and Irish or not, in this pub at least, people drink and dance and have fun. 

“Ready.” Sherlock’s voice, unusually cheerful, echoes in his ear. His breath is hot on John’s neck.

“Right, then. Let’s go.”

“Not up for a little challenge first?”

“Sherlock,” John turns to face him, “five minutes ago you were complaining I wouldn’t kiss you. I’m about to take you home and kiss you senseless, and now you change your mind?”

“The circumstances are a little different, now.”

“What do you mean? Did you suddenly get drunker in the toilet?”

“That is physically impossible, John.”

“Not if you took a pint in with you.”

“I didn’t. JOHN.” Sherlock grabs his hand and pulls it. John pulls back. 

“Sherlock,” he hisses, “I will not grope you in a pub entrance!” 

“You should, John. You should. But if you insist.” He swirls out the door. John does a double take. Swirl? That  idiot !

Sherlock pokes his head back in. “Coming, John?” He draws the ‘o’ out obscenely, 

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?” 

Sherlock doesn’t turn around, just keeps walking. John shouldn’t chase him down-it’ll just encourage him- but the saucy swish of his kilt is really very enticing, and since John enjoys seeing him move this way, he really can’t back down on principle. 

“I see you, you know!” he shouts ahead.

“I certainly hope so, John.” He wheels around and grins, and John gets a little closer, “That’s the point.” He turns and starts walking again. John takes his time, just to be contrary. Sherlock needs him within at least shouting distance, after all. 

They’re about five blocks from home when Sherlock takes a sharp turn into a park. John follows, slowly enough so that Sherlock knows he’s resisting and quickly enough so that he’s close enough to help if Sherlock gets into trouble.

Sherlock ducks around a hedge. When John comes around the same corner, he expects to see Sherlock still walking. 

What he doesn’t expect to see is Sherlock sprawled on a park bench, legs apart, waiting for him with a look that hovers between hungry and impatient. He keeps walking, because he can’t not. 

“A park bench, Sherlock?”

“It’s outside. Outside is green. It’s Saint Patrick’s Day. See the connection?”

“I see you’re completely mad.”

“About you.” 

“Now I know you’re drunk.”

“On love.”

“You have got to be joking, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Come here. I’ll demonstrate.” Sherlock waves his hands in the air, gesturing at John to come closer. 

“You, Sherlock Holmes,” John is disinclined to let him take control, now, “will do no such thing.” He takes two steps towards him, squares his shoulders. Sherlock leans back, flings his arms across the back of the bench, and waits.

John steps swiftly toward him, stands between his spread legs, and kisses him, deep, loose, and filthy. Sherlock lets his mouth be taken over, head tilted back. John breaks the kiss before either one of them is ready; he steps back and snaps open his trouser button. He slides his hand into his pants and pulls out his cock. Sherlock watches him, mouth open, eyes slightly unfocused; he’s reaching for it before John even pulls his own hands away, and by the time John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s mouth has engulfed him. His lips are pink and mobile, and John watches them move, suddenly hypnotized. Combined with the slickness of Sherlock’s tongue, the sensation is an intense pull; he lets Sherlock bring him to the edge of orgasm with no ceremony, then draws back, hard, and aching, balls drawn up tight against his body. He pulls his pants up, then drops to his knees, running his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and pushing the kilt up a bit. He stops short of exposing Sherlock completely, mindful in even his fog of lust of what will happen if they get caught.

John sits back, now, and looks at Sherlock. He’s a couple of ticks past ‘sensual’, almost at ‘shameless’; his legs are open and the plaid of the kilt is distorted by his erection. John flips the kilt up, just to Sherlock’s thighs, and slides his hands along them until he gets to the sensitive skin near Sherlock’s cock. Then, he drags his thumbs along that skin, skimming lightly, just missing the spots that Sherlock is begging him to touch. He tilts his face up and Sherlock bends forward and bites his lower lip.

“Tease” John breathes into his mouth.

“No public snogging.” Sherlock whispers back, kissing him hard. John dissolves into him for a moment, then breaks the kiss by the simple expedient of wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock hisses and throws his head back as John strokes him gently under the fabric. 

“Shall I stop, then?” 

“That would be enormously ambitious of you, John.” Sherlock gasps, reaching out, ineffectually, to grab John’s lapels. 

“Re-using your best lines. Sad.” John dodges, letting go of Sherlock for a moment. He licks his palm, and takes him in hand firmly. Sherlock lets out a very undignified squeak, and John removes his hand and licks it again. He can see Sherlock fighting it, but as he runs his spit-damp thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, it comes out again, and John savours it. This Sherlock, who feels rather than overthinks, is very enjoyable.

John establishes a smooth rhythm, watching Sherlock close his eyes and do everything but lean into the caress. His face is relaxed, mouth open and glistening, and John slows his strokes even before he can feel the telltale tensing of Sherlock’s body.

“If we had lube, Sherlock, I would have you bent over here with that kilt around your ears so fast…”

Sherlock’s mouth moves, fishlike, then stops. His hand fumbles down between them, unsnaps the sporran, pulls out a little packet. 

“Oh, really?” 

“Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely, then.”

“No points for preparation?”

“No.”

“Fuck me.” 

“If you insist.” John rips it open, lets the warmish lube trickle on to his fingers. 

“Turn over.” he says, sharp. 

Sherlock does—shivering, because John’s command voice pushes nearly every button he has—and John doesn’t waste movement, pushing the kilt over Sherlock’s hips and running his slick hand down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. His finger is insistent, demanding, and it’s not long before Sherlock is pushing back against him, begging for a second. John lets him have it, watches greedily as he takes him in, almost past caring that they’ll be caught. As Sherlock trembles beneath him, he gives one final stroke, then draws his fingers out carefully and places the head of his cock at Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock groans and pushes back against him, and John holds back. Only briefly, though, since while getting caught is a concern, being inside Sherlock is a greater concern. John reaches around, denies himself just one more second, and strokes Sherlock lightly, gently. Sherlock responds immediately, sighing and pushing into John’s hand. John breathes, then slides into him, tightening his grip at the same time. 

He tries to hold on, then, but really, it’s futile. Sherlock is hot and slick and moaning- he rarely moans- and John himself is already so close. Two strokes, three, and he’s close; Sherlock’s cock is harder than he ever remembers, and then he’s coming, and Sherlock too, loudly for once. John muffles his own noise in his sleeve, but he can’t do anything about Sherlock’s shout, just enjoy it. He rides out the last shocks of pleasure, slowly, letting Sherlock finish convulsing, then, panting, he withdraws and zips up quickly. Pulling the kilt down, he tilts Sherlock into a sitting position, holds him.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got something absorbent in that sporran as well?” he asks, kissing Sherlock’s flushed lips.

“No,” Sherlock mumbles against him. He nips John’s mouth, then drops his head to John’s shoulder. 

“Don’t think I don’t see what you tried to do there.” John knows he should feel sterner than he does, but Sherlock smiles up at him, face sweet in the half-light.

“I know.” 

“Bossy, sneaky, jealous, possessive…” John pauses, “…and romantic.”

“I am not romantic.” Sherlock protests.

“Yeah, you are.”


End file.
